


Back on the Open Sea

by Tirrathee



Series: HMS 00Q [3]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:28:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tirrathee/pseuds/Tirrathee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond returns to London to see more things have changed than he thought. Describing the events of Skyfall, thus can be mildly spoilerish if you haven't seen it yet. Nothing major tho.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back on the Open Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Finally posting to ao3 after a week of hesitation. Basically just a drabble to get my Bond feels out and deal with my nearly-obsessive over-analyzing of the Gallery scene. Bond-POV, although I was tempted to slip in more of Q's impressions. Didn't though because it was 2 AM.  
> Overly lyrical title suggests this fic-thing has some sort of quality. It doesn't.

Years as a 00 are not something any man could handle, and James Bond was well aware of that throughout his career. And throughout his career, he remained confident that he had everything the two zeroes required.

Still, he was just a man. Men tire, men get frustrated, men get scared. Everyone does. Men age. For years the had thought he knew how to cope with tiredness, frustration and fear, taking the scenic route through life, enjoying the life of the disgustingly rich: indulging in luxuries and luxurious women, an endless string of them, each an unrivaled queen of his heart, only if for a night. Each of his missions passed on a tidal wave of adrenaline fueled by danger and fueling him to always, always prove there were no men quite like him; fierce, righteous, gallant and chivalrous, pulling through the worst and coming out unscathed. Immortal.

All of it - the exhaustion, the frustration, and, after all, the age that he had been pushing onto the sidelines - came crashing down on him when Eve took the shot, knocking him off the train and off his track into what he later realised was a chaotic whirlpool of himself trying to live up to his name without living up to the 00; but there wasn't a James Bond without a 007 anymore, just as there was no 007 without a James Bond to flesh it out with infallible virility and charisma. Or so he hoped.

And although he didn't quite know that at the time, it was this uncertainty whether he could function as anything but the agent of Her Majesty's Secret Service that lent the final straw after he'd heard the news which hastened him on to the airport, halfway across the world and into M's flat in central London. That uncertainty clung to him as he took the tests and discovered with frigid bewilderment how much of the agent he had lost in the three months of running from himself. The realization had him numbed, and he was infinitely grateful to Tanner for pausing him halfway through pull-ups, right before he thought his body would give out and fall to pieces. It took all he had not to collapse until the room was empty.

The strain the tests put on him was far more than he was ready for, and the dull ache in his long-healed wound bloomed again. Flexing his arm, he examined the newly sharpened pain. It was unpleasant, tampering his abilities, but it was sobering; a proof and reminder that he was back in the MI6, had been debriefed about the situation; he was needed. His mind clicked into the familiar path of practicality, urging him to take good advantage of anything and everything he had. The knife that cut out shrapnel from his body, cut also his last ties to the period of idleness, and mere hours later he was Bond, James Bond, agent 007, once again. Or, at least, as close as he got.

A hint of disappointment flashed through his mind when M told him he would have a new Quartermaster, and he wondered, despite himself, what the man would be like. Tanner had only told him to wait at Turner's  _The Fighting Temeraire_ in the National Gallery, and Bond knew better than to ask for more detail than he was given. 

As he sat there, absentmindedly contemplating Turner's work, his thoughts wandered. Although he was loathe to admit it to himself, he was getting old; not too old to be a field agent yet, but certainly the little vacation did him no good in that he lost a beat and no longer was the dashing young man choosing to die another day. The grand warship towed to her final berth reminded him unpleasantly of the definiteness of everything and that his last day is sure to come, and given his field of work, he could never really predict it.

However lost in thought he appeared on the outside, he was well aware of the young man approaching, and scowled inwardly when he sat beside him. Somehow it was as far from his idea of a Quartermaster as it could get.

'Always makes me feel a little melancholy,' the lad began, and James decided he could be an art student, or art enthusiast, with his slightly scruffy outfit and posh accent, chatting up (hitting on) strangers about his favourite piece of art.

'Grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.' _Who even speaks like that,_ thought Bond, minutely leaning away from him, irritation growing as the youngster's words reflected his own musings. The brunette remained unfazed by his steely façade, though. 'Inevitability of time, don't you think?'

By this point, Bond really was on the verge of snapping, wanting the other to get to the point or fuck off rather than hint at obsolescence.

'What do you see?'

'A bloody big ship,' he muttered, fed up with the kid's persistence. 'Excuse me.'

'Double-oh-seven.'

_So, after all. Shit._

'I'm your new Quartermaster.'

'...You must be joking.'

'Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?'

'No,' Bond gathered all his rapidly fleeing patience, 'because you still have  _spots._ '

'My complexion is hardly relevant,' replied the other, having the audacity to smirk.

'Your competence is.'

That gave him a pause. He surely heard that a lot, and Bond memorized this sore point for further reference.

'Age is no guarantee of efficiency-'

'And youth is no guarantee of innovation.'

There was a spark of satisfaction when Bond managed to cut Q off again.

'Word has it I can do more damage sitting on my laptop in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in a field.'

 _What an arrogant little shit._ 'Oh, so why do you need me.'

'Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled.'

 _Poor you, to depend on someone but your fabulous self so._ James couldn't deny that the youngster, in spite of being full of himself, elicited some sympathy in him. 'Or not pulled,' he said, shooting Q a sharp but appreciative look. 'It's hard to know which... in your pajamas.'

Their eyes finally met and James was pleased to note the intelligence and humour in the brown eyes behind the retro glasses; sharp wit that refused to back down in his presence, as younger men were wont to do around Bond. It certainly was refreshing, however infuriating. 'Q,' he extended a hand.  _You'll have to learn a thing or two about working with me, boy._

'007,' replied Q with a firm handshake.  _You'd be surprised, old man._

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know okay. This is a shit ending and I hope to elaborate some on this.  
> Also available on my [tumblr](http://earthsmightiesttimebomb.tumblr.com/post/34803279427/so-i-love-yall-in-the-00q-tag-and-wanted-to).
> 
> Possibly to be continued as I sort out my headcanon for the development of their relationship.
> 
> Fun fact: so far the drabbles in this series are posted counter-chronologically (regarding writing order, there isn't any particular timeline other than this here is the only thing not post-Skyfall). This is the first thing I wrote for the fandom, Off Duty is the second, It's Too Late To Say Goodnight - the third. Crackiness is going up by each one. :D


End file.
